Such a kiss as might inspire
Thrilling raptures-soft desire:
Such Adonis might receive,
Such the Queen of Beauty gave,
When the conquer'd goddess strove
(In the conscious myrtle grove)
To inflame the boy with love.

Let not Pride our sports restrain,
Banish hence the prude, Disdain!
Think-ye virgins, if you're coy,
Think-ye rob yourselves of joy;
Every moment you refuse,
So much ecstasy you lose:
Think-how fast these moments fly:
If you should too long deny,
Love and Beauty both will die.

HORACE.

ODE X. BOOK IV.

CHLOE, my most tender care,
Always coy, and always fair,
Should unwish'd-for languor spread
O'er that beauteous white and red;
Should these locks that sweetly play
Down these shoulders fall away,
And that lovely bloom, that glows
Fairer than the fairest rose,
Should it fade-and leave thy face
Spoil'd of every killing grace;
Should your glass the charge betray,
Thus, my fair, you'd weeping say→

⚫ Cruel gods! does beauty fade,
Now warm desires my breast invade?
And why, while blooming youth did glow,
Was this heart as cold as snow?"

SAPPHO'S HYMN TO VENUS.

HAIL! (with eternal beauty bless'd,
O'er heaven and earth adored!)
Hail, Venus! 'tis thy slave's request,
Her peace may be restored:

Break the fond bonds, remove the rankling smart, And bid thy tyrant son from Sappho's soul depart.

Once you descended, Queen of Love,

At Sappho's bold desire,

From the high roofs of sacred Jove,

Thy ever glorious sire!

I saw thy dusky pinion'd sparrows bear
Thy chariot, rolling light through the rejoicing air.

No transient visit you design'd,
Your wanton birds depart;
And with a look divinely kind,

That sooth'd my fluttering heart,

'Sappho (say you), what sorrow breaks thy rest? How can I give relief to thy conflicting breast?"

Is there a youth severely coy,
My favourite would subdue?

Or has she lost some wandering boy,
To plighted vows untrue?

Spread thy soft nets, the rambler shall return, And, with new-lighted flames, more fond, more fiercely burn.

Thy proffer'd gifts though he deride,
And scorn thy glowing charms,
Soon shall his every art be tried

To win thee to his arms:

Though he be now as cold as virgin snow, The victim, in his turn, shall like roused Ætna glow.'

Thee, goddess, I again invoke,

These mad desires remove! Again I've felt the furious stroke

Of irresistless love:

Bid gentle peace to Sappho's breast return, Or make the youth she loves with mutual ardour burn.

THE

POEMS

OF

Oliver Goldsmith.